


World's Funniest Joke

by InsertSthMeaningful



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, And there was only one Tent, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Ficlet, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:28:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24863842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsertSthMeaningful/pseuds/InsertSthMeaningful
Summary: John Watson and Sherlock Holmes go camping.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 8
Kudos: 42





	World's Funniest Joke

**Author's Note:**

> So one of the kids I work with was telling the World's Funniest Joke (which is, yes, Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson go camping and then their tent gets stolen... just google world's funniest joke and it'll be in the top image results 😄) and I got randomly inspired.  
> Their characterisation is a mix of the TV show and the canonical works by Doyle, because Sherlock's such a sweetheart in those stories! But you can imagine their Cucumberhatch and Freeman looks.  
> Enjoy!

John Watson woke with a grunt.

At first, he did not know what had torn him from the sweet realm of dream. Had it been the docile night wind caressing his cheeks in the mockery of a lover’s embrace? Had his back finally cried out in displeasure at the – honestly bloody uncomfortable – camping mat Sherlock had dug out of his parents’ closet only yesterday? Or had it simply been the vehement protest of his shin’s nerve endings as the consulting detective’s feet, cold as fish pulled straight from the freezer, had abruptly snuggled up to them in desperate search of warmth?

John mulled this over for a little while, then came to the conclusion that it must have been the latter, for his husband’s feet truly _were_ awfully cold.

“Oh, Sherlock,” he grumbled quietly, lest he wake his dearest friend whom he could glimpse slumbering peacefully right beside him, “I _told_ you your blood circulation is utter shite.”

To his slightly startled astonishment, this received a response. Or at least as much of a response as you could ever get out of a stubborn, aloof and yet praise-hungry consulting detective.

“Ah! You’re awake,” came Sherlock Holmes’ equally awake and very chipper voice. “Lovely. Now, my dear Doctor Watson, take a look up at the sky and pray tell me what you can see.”

John was puzzled – which, in his opinion, was quite an understandable reaction. “Why, Sherlock, I would much rather look at you.” Successfully grappling for his husband’s hand under the cover of their double sleeping bag, he turned and tried to make out Sherlock’s face, which turned out not to be a very difficult task.

High cheekbones, delicate lips, that energetic chin standing testament to a nature of utmost dedication; all were shining in the moonlight like unblemished ivory against the polished ebony of Sherlock’s dark curls.

“And it’s not like you’re overly interested in what goes on beyond the atmosphere, anyway. Beyond the reach of your power of deduction,” John added.

A half-flattered, half-unnerved smile was tugging at the corners of those lovely marble lips. “Please, John. Just indulge me in _your_ deductions for once.”

“Alright then.” Courtesy of their fingers finally entwined, John pulled his husband’s hand to his lips and placed a gentle peck, like the beat of a saturnia moth’s wing, on its back. Then, he took his eyes off Sherlock and turned them towards the firmament. “Good. Well.” He nodded to himself. He could do this. “I see… stars. A lot of stars. They’re like tiny little pinpricks in the vastness of space, so close and yet so far. Lonely, almost.”

By his side, Sherlock hummed non-committally and wiggled closer, icy feet digging into the hollows of John’s knees, making him clench his teeth. “Good. Now, your deduction please.”

John sighed. Really, sometimes his partner’s antics could be a horrendous pain in the arse.

“If there are billions of stars out there,” he spoke finally, firmly, “then there must be just as many star systems. And in a multitude of those star systems, there must be planets, and since there must be billions of those, too, some in the habitable zone, it is simply inevitable that at least one of them is harbouring _life_. Therefore, I deduce that we are not alone in the universe.”

The night wind blew. A lonely cricket chirped. Sherlock’s feet were slowly warming on the back of John’s knees.

“Well,” spoke Sherlock finally, and “Most extraordinary.”

John snorted. “Really? You hate it, I can tell. I just ‘don’t observe the obvious’, do I?”

“You don’t.” There came the shuffling of limbs, the rustling of nylon, and then Sherlock’s body pressed up against John’s, quite a tad bit warmer than his feet. “But I don’t think that a flaw. Well, not by your standards, anyway. However, you are right in that you were wrong.”

“Oh, please do enlighten me in that case.”

The tip of Sherlock’s nose was freezing when he pressed it against the Doctor’s ear.

“John. We can see the stars. Which _ve_ _ry obviously_ means that someone stole our tent.”

Somewhere in the meadow around them, the cricket chirped on.

“Oh, bloody–!” John finally exploded, gripping his husband by the shoulder and hips and shaking him lightly as the detective chuckled, digging his fingers into John’s flannel pyjamas. “You utter cock! Did you really suggest we go sleep under the stars _without a tent_ just so you could crack this joke?”

“Do you see me denying that?” laughed Sherlock, his warm breath ghosting over John’s cheeks, his clavicles, through his hair. “Does it make you love me any less?”

Their bodies melded together like two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle as John pulled Sherlock close, buried his nose in the juncture between the detective’s jaw and shoulder and just breathed. Breathed in the scent of mowed grass, of sweaty polyester and sweet, sweet home.

“Of course not,” he murmured, delighting in the shiver Sherlock gave at his words against his ivory skin. “Never have I loved you more.”

They said no more after that. Their lips, their hands, their bodies did the talking, spoke the words which neither of them was capable of articulating.

And above them, the night sky rushed by. The stars shone, shimmered, cradled planets teeming with life close in the security of their gravitational embrace.

The cricket in the meadow had fallen silent.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked it! If you did, please consider leaving kudos and a comment. It doesn't have to be anything elaborate, just a "+kudos" or a "loved it!" would make my day!!! It means so much to an author to see people take the time to actually type out words instead of simply hitting one (1) button, and it's a very easy way to make us, who dedicate so much of our free time to create content for you, happy!


End file.
